


Whatever Comes Next

by ThornWild



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Headcanon, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornWild/pseuds/ThornWild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back before you know it . . . He really had said that, hadn’t he? And then everything had gone tits up. For the third time in Maxwell Trevelyan’s life, everything had changed in a single moment, only this time he barely even recognised the world anymore. And now, he appeared to have offered a full alliance to the rebel mages in Redcliffe, and he was pretty certain he had done so almost entirely because he wanted the far too attractive and charming Tevinter mage with whom he had travelled to the future and back, to like him.<br/>He supposed that made four times everything had changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress, and I have no idea where it's going. Rating, warnings and tags are subject to change. 
> 
> This story was born from my headcanons regarding my Inquisitor's backstory.

The youngest son of House Trevelyan, Maxwell had always been the black sheep of his very pious and devout family, and being the youngest he had mostly been able to get away with it. While his elder brother was expected to take a keen interest in Chantry politics, and his sister was held to the high standard of Andraste herself, Maxwell was often left to his own devices. As a child, he spent his days in the grounds of their large estate just outside Ostwick practicing with his bow, hunting wild nugs and the occasional bird.  
  
Family mattered greatly to the Trevelyans, second only to the Chantry, and as such Maxwell was close with his siblings and parents, and their extended family. His only real friend, however, was his cousin Richard.  
  
Richard was in a similar situation to Maxwell, youngest son to Maxwell’s father’s sister. The two were almost of an age, and were thrown together much at family gatherings as young children. As the years went by, they developed a close friendship. Richard’s family lived in the city, and Maxwell would visit him there whenever he could.  
  
It was in the summer of their fourteenth year that everything changed.  
  
‘Hey.’ Maxwell waved his hand in front of Richard’s face. ‘Your move.’  
  
‘What? Oh.’ Richard seemed distracted, distant. He looked down at the pieces on the board like he wasn’t really seeing them.  
  
‘Is something the matter?’ asked Maxwell.  
  
Richard shrugged and said nothing. Moved a piece. It was a stupid move, leaving him wide open for Maxwell to claim his victory.  
  
Maxwell did not do so. Instead he reached across the table and gently put his hand on Richard’s arm. ‘Hey,’ he said again. ‘Talk to me.’  
  
Richard stood abruptly. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and set off in the direction of the stairs at a quick pace. Maxwell followed, bewildered. He had never seen Richard so closed off before, nor so agitated.  
  
They reached Richard’s bedroom, and he closed the door behind them. ‘I need to show you something,’ he told Maxwell seriously. He held out his hand, and Maxwell moved to grasp it. ‘No, wait. Just watch.’  
  
Maxwell cocked his head to one side and said nothing. He kept his eyes on Richard’s hand, and all of a sudden, out of nowhere, bright orange sparks seemed to erupt from Richard’s fingertips. The sparks became a flame that danced lightly over Richard’s palm. Then he closed his hand into a fist and the flame was extinguished.  
  
Maxwell stared in wonder and amazement. ‘Was that—’  
  
‘Magic,’ Richard finished for him. ‘Yes. I had a dream, two nights ago, and when I woke up it just . . . happened.’  
  
Maxwell frowned. ‘What do you mean, it just happened?’  
  
‘I dreamed that I could do it.’ Richard shrugged. ‘When I woke up, I could.’ He closed his eyes with a sigh and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘I don’t know what to do, Max. You’re the first I’ve told.’  
  
A million thoughts raced through Maxwell’s head at once, then. If Richard told anyone else that he was a mage, he would get sent to a Circle. If that happened, Maxwell might never see him again. That thought scared him more than anything ever had before in his life.  
  
‘You can’t tell anyone else,’ he said without thinking. ‘You have to keep it a secret, or they’ll take you away.’  
  
Richard smiled sadly. ‘I know. But if I don’t tell anyone, I’m a danger to everyone. Who’s going to teach me to control this if I don’t turn myself in to the Circle?’  
  
‘But what if,’ Maxwell began, ‘what if the Templars . . .’ He fell silent, looking away before continuing quietly, ‘What if I never see you again?’  
  
Warm arms circled him then, hugging him close, and Maxwell found himself choking down a sob.  
  
‘It’ll be okay, Max,’ said Richard softly. ‘I’m sure they’ll let you visit me. We can play games and talk like we always do. It’ll be safer this way. For everyone.’  
  
Maxwell hugged him back, harder than he had meant to. ‘You’re my best friend. I don’t want to lose you.’  
  
‘You won’t.’ But Richard sounded less sure than his words suggested. ‘You won’t lose me. I promise.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the somewhat graphic description of the death of a doe.

Lawrence Trevelyan held up his right hand to signal silence. Maxwell stopped dead, bowstring quivering. His elder brother motioned for him to come nearer, and he did as he was bid, crouching down next to him.

‘Do you see her?’ Lawrence whispered, voice barely audible.

Maxwell peered through the trees and thick undergrowth. A quick, skittish movement caught his eye and he saw the doe. Her ear twitched as she looked around her, as if she knew she was being watched. Maxwell nodded to his brother, and Lawrence smiled.

‘You take the shot,’ he said softly. ‘You’re better than me with a bow, anyway.’

Maxwell raised his bow and reached back into his quiver. He nocked the arrow slowly and steadily, aiming with both eyes open and pulling back the bowstring. With a whiplike sound, the arrow launched through the air and embedded itself deep in the doe’s shoulder. She stumbled forward, alive but injured. Maxwell swore, nocked a second arrow and took aim. This time it struck home, burying itself in the doe’s neck.

‘Well done!’ Lawrence stood up, and they raced towards the felled animal. She lay on her side, bleeding, but somehow still breathing. Lawrence pulled his hunting knife from his belt and quickly, expertly, cut the creature’s throat. Her body twitched, blood rapidly spilling out onto the mossy ground, and was still.

‘A fine catch,’ said Maxwell, nudging the doe’s still body with the toe of his boot. He kneeled, running his fingers through the soft, warm fur of her neck before pulling out the arrow. More blood oozed from the wound, but it already flowed sluggishly, no heartbeat left to pump it out. He pulled the other arrow from her shoulder. Wiping them on her fur he replaced them into his quiver. Then he lifted the doe by her back legs, letting some more blood drain from her throat, before swinging her over his shoulders. His brother moved to help, but he handed Lawrence his bow instead.

‘I’ve got her.’

They set off back towards the estate. Lawrence whistled a cheery tune. When they were halfway home, Maxwell spoke.

‘Don’t you have better things to do than take your useless brother hunting?’

Lawrence laughed. ‘No, not at all,’ he said, green eyes twinkling. ‘Anyway, it’s not like we’re likely to have another chance for quite some time.’ He paused, eyeing his younger brother for a moment. ‘Are you certain you wish to go to the Conclave?’

Maxwell shrugged one shoulder, as much to redistribute the weight of the dead animal he was carrying as anything else. ‘Wish has little to do with it. The family wants a representative there with the Chantry, and I have no other obligations. It’s what I get for being the wild child.’

‘Wild child indeed.’ Lawrence reached over and pulled at a strand of his long, messy hair. ‘You might consider making yourself look a bit more presentable before you go. Still. If you changed your mind, no one would think less of you for it. I know you have little patience with Chantry politics.’

‘It’s true, I’d much rather spend my days hunting and my nights flirting,’ said Maxwell gravely. ‘Still, a change of scenery can’t hurt. I’m running out of people to flirt with in Ostwick.’

Lawrence shook his head. ‘I wish you would spend a little less time on idle flirting and a bit more on finding yourself a suitable wife, since you won’t let the family help make a match for you.’

Maxwell laughed. ’Now you just sound like Mother. And who says I even want a wife? Besides, isn’t lower expectations one of the perks of _not_ being the heir?’ He sighed. ‘To answer your question, though . . . I have as much interest in seeing an end to this conflict as anyone. And if anyone can end it, Divine Justinia can. So yes, I do wish to go.’

Lawrence nodded. ‘I see there is no dissuading you. All right, then.’ He glanced at Maxwell. ‘I will miss you, little brother. I hope you know that.’

‘You won’t have time to miss me,’ said Maxwell dismissively. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’

* * *

_Back before you know it . . ._ He really had said that, hadn’t he? And then everything had gone tits up. For the third time in Maxwell Trevelyan’s life, everything had changed in a single moment, only this time he barely even recognised the world anymore. Now, there was a giant hole in the sky, demons everywhere, and he was the only one who could stop it. Apparently.

The first thing he had done when the initial confusion had died down was write a letter home. But how do you explain something like that?

_Dear Mother, hope everyone is fine back home. Down here in the south, the Temple of Sacred Ashes exploded killing everyone except me, and now everyone that’s left is calling me the Herald of Andraste because I have this glowing green mark on my hand. It’s been wild. I’ve joined a rogue branch of the Chantry called the Inquisition, and now I’m off to save the world. Do give my love to Father!_

Since then, everything had been a whirlwind. Maxwell hardly knew what he had been doing, it was all happening so quickly. And now, he appeared to have offered a full alliance to the rebel mages in Redcliffe, and he was pretty certain he had done so almost entirely because he wanted the far too attractive and charming Tevinter mage with whom he had travelled to the future and back, to like him.

He supposed that made four times everything had changed.

Maxwell sipped his pint moodily. Over in a corner of Haven’s little tavern Sera was amusing a couple of serving girls with tales from the field, while the minstrel played something cheerful and upbeat that barely registered. He was in the mood for flute music. How come their minstrel never played the flute?

Even now, he seemed to inspire awe and reverence in most people, even though it had been a couple of months now since he walked out of the Fade, so he was mostly left alone with his drinks. The Iron Bull had joined him once or twice, and Blackwall just the once. He had the distinct impression that Sera didn’t like him much, and even less now that he had allied with the mages, and most of the others didn’t seem to be great drinkers, save Varric, who preferred to spend nights at the tavern spinning tales for the amusement of everyone rather than interacting with just him.

He was surprised, therefore, when someone pulled out the chair across from him and sat down with a goblet of wine.

Dorian Pavus looked disdainfully around him. ‘Well,’ he said, sipping his wine and grimacing, ‘at least it’s warmer in here.’

‘Cold, are you?’

Dorian chuckled. ‘I’m always cold. Used to the north, remember? You’re from the Free Marches. It’s warmer there as well, isn’t it? How do you stand it?’

Maxwell shrugged one shoulder. ‘Doesn’t bother me much. Have you considered covering up a bit? I assume baring one shoulder is some absurd Tevinter fashion.’

‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t enjoy the view,’ said Dorian with a smirk. ‘I’ve seen you looking.’ He sipped his wine and made another face. ‘Ugh. There must be something better to drink than this swill in this blasted place . . .’

‘Try the beer next time,’ Maxwell told him, raising his cup.

Dorian rolled his eyes but said nothing. After a few moments of staring down into his goblet he glanced up at Maxwell through his eyelashes. ‘It seems . . . odd, that you would so openly offer an alliance to the rebel mages. You Marchers are no more known for your tolerance of magic than anyone else outside the Imperium. And with what happened in Kirkwall . . .’ He trailed off and looked away again, sipping his wine.

Maxwell took a swig of his beer. ’I have my reasons. Maybe some day I’ll tell you about them.’

‘Some day, hm?’ Dorian cocked one perfect eyebrow. ‘Well, my lord Herald, I shall look forward to it.’ He drained his goblet with a grimace and stood. ‘In the meantime, I suppose we have a breach to seal. Do try not to stay up too late. We need you at your best tomorrow, after all.’

Maxwell watched him walk away, taking special care to pay attention to the sway of his hips. He had never met anyone quite like Dorian. Admittedly, his experience with mages prior to the Conclave had been mostly limited to his cousin Richard, but . . . He shook the thought from his mind. That was not something he wanted to think about.

Dorian was witty and charming, and more than easy on the eyes. But at the same time, he hid everything behind a mask of indifference. Maxwell knew he was anything but. He had seen it in that horrible future, in Dorian’s affectionate behaviour towards Felix. He had watched them say goodbye in Redcliffe.

He longed to see Dorian open up. Longed to learn more about him, to know him. It had been a long time since he had felt this way about another man. From Dorian’s shameless flirting, he was reasonably certain that the attraction was mutual, but whether anything would come of it was another matter.

Maxwell shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. They had only just met, after all, and they were in the middle of a war. There was no way of knowing what tomorrow would bring, what would happen when they assaulted the breach. But if Dorian was still around when it was all over, Maxwell wouldn’t be above seeing what might come of it all.

The thought made his breeches feel uncomfortably tight, and he drained his cup. Dorian was right, he needed to be awake and alert tomorrow, and he could do with some privacy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt like getting back to this today. So here's a chapter. :)

Maxwell hugged himself against the cold. His steps were growing slower, his legs aching with the strain of walking through deep snow. He wasn’t certain how long he had been struggling through this blizzard. He had met no one, nothing, not even an animal, though he heard wolves cry somewhere in the distance. He thought he could see a faint glow on the horizon, though, so that was where he was going.

The snow whirled around him, getting in his eyes. His armour, while both sturdy and warm, had not been made for conditions like these, and his coat had torn in the fall down into the caves beneath Haven. His bowstring had snapped, too, so the only weapon he had was the knife at his belt. Not that he seemed likely to need weapons. The cold was more likely to kill him than any enemy in this frozen wasteland. It was easy to forget how vast the Frostbacks were when one travelled by the king’s road. 

He had heard once that people who froze to death felt warm near the end. He supposed that meant he had a bit more fight in him, because he was shivering more violently than he ever had in his life. 

He lost his footing, suddenly, and fell forward, face first in the snow. It wasn’t so bad, he thought distantly. Perhaps he should just stay here and rest for a moment. But the rational part of his mind broke through and reminded him that if he did that he might as well just kill himself.

Maxwell wasn’t ready to die, or at least not to give up without a fight, so he pulled himself to his feet, a violent shudder racking his body until he thought he could hear his very bones rattle.

As he staggered on, he wondered what would happen if he didn’t find the Inquisition again. No doubt they would assume that he had fallen to Corypheus. Would they mourn him? Some would surely mourn the Herald of Andraste, but would anyone mourn _him_? Would they be sad that he was gone? He couldn’t say he had grown particularly close with any of them in his weeks at Haven. Too many monsters, too little time to get acquainted. 

His family would mourn him when they finally heard, but not the Inquisition. They would mourn what he represented, and not him, he decided. And he refused to go down in history as just an idea.

He began to count off in his head the things he would do when he found them again. Share a drink with the Bull and his Chargers. Have a real conversation with Sera about her friends and how they could help each other. Get Solas to tell him more about the Fade, he liked that. Get Varric to tell him the rest of that story he had started in the tavern the other night but Maxwell had missed the ending of. Practice hand to hand with Cassandra. Talk about Grey Wardens with Blackwall. Make Cullen blush by flirting shamelessly with him. Swap stories about annoying noble families with Josephine. Discuss Chantry politics with Lelliana, as much as he despised it. Ask Vivienne about the Circles of Magi. Ask Dorian more about Tevinter. Flirt more with Dorian. Get Dorian alone so he could have his way with him . . .

It was not a very good thing to be thinking about in a blizzard, he realised. He needed his wits about him. 

He spotted a dark patch, not far up ahead. Approaching it, he found a fire pit dug into the snow. The embers were still warm. Someone had been here.

A few more steps, over a ridge, and he could see a warm light, a camp in the valley, and someone called his name. He collapsed onto his knees, shaking, and everything went black.

* * *

When he had joined the Inquisition, the last thing Dorian had expected was for the Herald of Andraste to go and get a mountain dropped on him. And yet that was precisely what had happened, and now Dorian was stuck out in the frozen wilderness with a bunch of southern barbarians who each and every one eyed him with suspicion. Even the rebel mages kept their distance. Dorian was cold, hungry, and longed for the comforts of good wine and a warm bed. Though he was loathe to admit it, he was also more than a little bit afraid.

He had fought alongside the Herald, had been prepared to give up his life in order to give the rest of Haven’s population and the budding Inquisition a chance to escape. This was no mean feat, as he was really rather fond of his life, even though it had taken a turn for the worse in the past few months. But Dorian hadn’t died. Trevelyan had told him, Cassandra and the Iron Bull to run, and they had. To Dorian’s great indignation, the large Qunari had practically carried him out of there, in fact. Dorian hadn’t died. The Herald had. 

Dorian moved closer to the fire in an attempt to stop his teeth from chattering, when he heard a commotion. A sentry was shouting something inaudible, and up in the snowy slope he saw several people running away from the camp. He stood. Had the remainders of the Elder One’s forces found them? But then he saw three figures appear over the ridge, and recognised Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra among them. The third wore Inquisition armour. A scout or sentry. Dorian squinted.

No, not three. Four. Cullen was carrying something. Some _one_.

The Iron Bull and Vivienne ran to meet them on the slope. The Qunari took Cullen’s burden from him, and they began to descend the slope towards the centre of the camp at a faster pace. Dorian took his staff in hand and ran to meet them.

‘. . . If we don’t get him warm soon he will die,’ he heard Cullen insist as they approached. ‘We need to get him inside a tent, near a fire.’

‘I can help,’ said Madame de Fer. ‘Did we manage to salvage any elfroot?’

Dorian reached the group and saw, cradled in the Iron Bull’s arms, Maxwell Trevelyan. For a moment he felt as if his throat was constricted. Then relief flooded him. He wanted to laugh and cheer, and he couldn’t explain to himself why the sight of this man he barely knew filled his heart with such joy. Dorian had thought him dead and gone not a minute ago. To find that he wasn’t . . .

He fell into step with the others. Mother Giselle ushered them all into the largest tent, and Iron Bull laid Trevelyan gently on a make-shift cot. Dorian lit a brazier with a flick of his fingers. In the firelight he saw how deathly pale the Herald looked. His eyes were closed, and the messy strands of his auburn hair were frosty and appeared near frozen.

‘He’s stopped shivering,’ said Cassandra, sounding relieved.

Iron Bull shook his head. ‘That’s not a good sign, Seeker. Get him out of his leathers. We need blankets, furs, anything we can spare.’ He turned one pale eye on Dorian. ‘You better have some useful magic, Vint.’

‘I’m not a healer,’ Dorian snapped. ‘But I can help get him warm if you fetch more braziers.’

For a long time, there was a lot of bustling around. The apothecary was called, Chantry sisters chimed in with advice, Vivienne worked some healing spells. Cullen took point, undressing the Herald down to his small clothes so they could wrap him up in dry furs, starting with his own ridiculous fur collar, while Iron Bull took his chargers to gather braziers and lanterns from around the camp. Solas came in to examine the mark. And Dorian worked his magic on the coals in the braziers, making them burn brighter and hotter. He hoped it was enough. It had to be enough.

 * * *

He stared into the fire, unseeing. His mind felt foggy, a side effect of the chill he had suffered, no doubt. Come morning, they would move on towards this fortress Solas had promised him. In the meantime there was little to do but wait. He would have slept, but after everything that had happened his mind could not seem to find rest.

Someone sat down next to him, and a dark hand held out a flask to him.

‘Here,’ said Dorian. ‘Looks like you could use some of this.’

Maxwell took the flask and pulled the stopper. The liquid inside smelled oaky and strong. He looked up at Dorian. ‘What is it?’

Dorain gave him a weary smile. He had a thick blanket around his shoulders, shielding his back from the cold. ‘Tevinter speciality. I’ve had it with me since I left home. Thought we might share what’s left.’

Maxwell brought the flask to his lips and tried a sip. It was strong, much stronger than any ale or wine he had ever had, and his throat burned. He coughed, handing the flask back to Dorian.

‘It does that,’ said Dorian with a chuckle. He took a sip of his own, smacking his lips and sighing contentedly. ‘So, you’ve had the whole valley sing for you. They seem glad to have you back, don’t they?’

Maxwell shrugged. ‘I suppose.’ He rubbed his frozen hands together and sighed heavily. ‘Honestly, I’m still pretty hazy. I’m not sure I’ve been thinking clearly since I stepped out of the Fade. Everything just seems so . . . surreal.’

‘Everyone here seems to believe you’ll lead us to salvation.’

Maxwell gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘I’m as lost as anyone else.’

‘Well, they don’t need to know that.’ Dorian offered him the flask again. ‘It can be our secret.’

Maxwell took the offered flask and took another sip. It burned less violently this time, and seemed to warm him. ‘Thank you,’ he said, handing it back again.

Dorian drained the flask before replacing it into some pocket or another. ‘Well, someone has to keep you out of trouble. It would be a shame for such a fine specimen to disappear again.’ He cocked his head to one side and frowned for a moment. ‘Did they give you elfroot?’

Maxwell nodded.

‘Not enough, it seems. That cut on your temple isn’t healing properly. It will scar at this rate.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Maxwell. ‘I can live with another scar. Save the elfroot for the ones who really need it.’

‘How does a man of your social standing end up with so many scars anyway?’ asked Dorian.

Maxwell shrugged again. ‘By living?’ He pointed to the one that cut through his right eyebrow. ‘Knife fight. Someone tried to mug me on my way home one evening. Being out in the streets of Ostwick alone after dark is not recommended.’ He touched the scar on the left side of his mouth. ‘This one’s self inflicted. I was learning how to shoot. Just a kid, really. Pulled too hard at the bowstring and it snapped.’

‘My, what an exciting life you’ve led, Herald,’ said Dorian with a smile. ‘Where else have you got scars?’

Maxwell laughed. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

‘Oh, I really, really would,’ Dorian purred. ‘But, this place is far too cold for such diversions. Some other time, perhaps.’ He stood. ‘Good night.’

‘Good night, Dorian,’ said Maxwell, certain that he would take him up on that some day.


End file.
